Une Nuit Sombre et Orageuse
by Aini NuFire
Summary: When the musketeers seek shelter from a storm, they find themselves at the mercy of an evil mortal men cannot hope to withstand.


**A/N: I wouldn't normally write this kind of thing for a Musketeers story, but the first section is based on a dream I had and since the plot was all lined up, it seemed a waste not to write it out.**

**Disclaimer: Not mine. Thanks to 29Pieces for beta reading! Also thanks to all my guests who reviewed the last chapter of "Finding Solid Ground" in case you read this too. I appreciate each and every one!**

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"_Une Nuit Sombre et Orageuse_"

The deluge was relentless, battering the earth and the four riders caught on the muddy road. It was preternaturally dark for midday, the sky a roiling mass of charcoal sporadically backlit by forks of lightning. The entire countryside had been washed out in grays, a bleak endless landscape with no shelter from the storm in sight. The four musketeers barely exchanged words, their voices swallowed up in the pounding drums and howling gales. They pressed on grimly, soaked to the bone with water-logged leather clinging to chilled skin, hats sopping blobs that no longer shielded their eyes from the rain but poured steady streams of water down the sides of their faces and under their already wet collars.

When the house appeared ahead, steepled roofs with pointed spires rising into the broiling heavens, it seemed a godsend. In unspoken consensus, they all veered their mounts toward the potential haven.

There was no stable that could be seen on the grounds. It might have been around back but best they knock on the front door first. The house was mostly dark, but a few of the large glass windows glowed with the incandescence of candle flames.

Aramis slid ungracefully from his saddle and squelched through the mud toward the door where he raised a fist to knock as loudly as he could above the raucous noise of the weather. Athos joined him on the doorstep, both of them looking no better than drowned cats.

It was several long moments before the door opened. Aramis immediately straightened and tried to banish some of the foulness from his mood at the sight of the woman that greeted them. He opened his mouth to apologize for the interruption but was mesmerized by a pair of dazzling ruby eyes that roved over them with open curiosity.

"Madame, we apologize for the intrusion," Athos spoke first. "We are King's Musketeers and in dire need of shelter from this storm. Do you have a stable we might take refuge in?"

The corner of her mouth curved upward slightly. "Oh, don't be silly. You must come inside." She took a step back and opened the door wider.

"Is your husband home?" Aramis asked.

"My husband passed many years ago," she replied, a glint in those mesmerizing eyes. Ebony hair was done up with jeweled combs, a few wavy locks left loose to fall around her shoulders. Her maroon gown bespoke of wealth and status.

Aramis flashed her a smile. "I am Aramis, this is Athos. And that is Porthos and d'Artagnan." He gestured to the two standing by the horses. "Whom do we have to thank for such magnanimous generosity?"

"Marie de Lussan. Please, come in out of this dreadful weather."

"Is there a place we may stable the horses?" Athos asked.

Marie de Lussan waved a hand vaguely. "I think there is a barn around the south wing."

"Thank you." He gave a short bow and then shot Aramis a warning look before moving back to Porthos and d'Artagnan.

Aramis took the opportunity to step inside out of the abusive rain, dripping water all over the pristine marble floor. "My apologies again, Madame, for disturbing your afternoon with our poor countenance."

"Call me Marie," she said, a smile playing at her lips. "And it is no disturbance at all. It has been some time since I've had such tantalizing company."

Aramis's mouth quirked rakishly.

They were interrupted by Athos and Porthos trudging inside with the saddlebags.

"D'Artagnan is seeing to the horses," Athos said, once again angling a look at Aramis as though he couldn't possibly be left unsupervised for more than a minute. Which was completely uncalled for, seeing as how Madame de Lussan wasn't even married.

And since the woman Aramis did love, who was carrying his child, could never be his, he didn't see any harm in some pleasurable distraction from his heartbreak.

"Come," Marie said cordially. "We must get you warmed by the fire."

The trio followed her through a few corridors until they came to a sitting room where a fire crackled in the hearth. There were three more women lounging on settees but they instantly rose to their feet upon the musketeers' entrance, eyes alight with intrigue.

"Let the gentlemen have some breathing room," Marie chided lightly.

That aborted the ladies' movements to swarm toward the musketeers though they continued to unabashedly rake their gazes up and down the men.

"You all have the same unusual shade of eye color," Aramis commented. "A trait I assume runs in your family?"

"Yes," Marie replied. "These are my…sisters." She gave a coy smile. "Girls, help our guests with their coats."

The other three moved forward again, though more reservedly. Athos tried to beg off assistance but they merely ignored him, nimble fingers prying sopping leather from their shoulders. Aramis grinned at the attention, but any thoughts of further flirting were disrupted by a violent shiver. He inched closer to the fire.

"We will ready rooms for you," Marie declared.

"That is very kind," Athos replied. "But we do not wish to inconvenience you."

"It's no trouble at all," she said. "This storm is not about to let up any time soon." With a flick of her wrist, she and her sisters exited the room.

"They're charming," Aramis said.

Porthos shared his grin while Athos rolled his eyes.

They huddled close to the fire in an attempt to dry and warm themselves. A few minutes later, d'Artagnan came in, adding drops of water to the trail the three had already left on the nice rugs.

"The barn looks like it hasn't been used in years," he commented as he swiped sopping hair out of his eyes. "But it's good enough to keep the horses sheltered."

"Madame de Lussan has offered us rooms while we wait out the storm," Athos informed him.

"She has three sisters," Aramis added with a conspiratorial grin. "And they are all quite lovely."

D'Artagnan had been having his own troubles of the heart recently and Aramis thought the boy could use a distraction as well.

Marie returned and invited them upstairs so they could change into some dry clothes. They carried their saddlebags up, though when they entered the large chamber Marie directed them to, they found several pairs of clothing already laid out on the four-poster bed.

"Please," she said, indicating them. "They are merely taking up space." She picked up a dark red shirt and handed it to Aramis. "This one suits you."

He canted his head in gratitude and accepted the item, the soft feel of the fabric finer than anything he'd ever owned.

Marie smiled. "When you've freshened up, please come to the sitting room two doors down. I will have tea ready." She excused herself.

The others looked at the clothes awkwardly before opting to be dry and warm over changing into their own garments that were probably damp through the soaked saddlebags. Aramis found their more refined appearances in the nicer clothes amusing and he was beginning to feel downright pampered himself.

Not wanting to be rude, they all made their way down the hall to a set of open doors that opened into another sitting room with rich tapestries and heavy oak bookcases. Plush upholstered chairs sat around a small table that held a tray of steaming teacups. Marie and her sisters were there and they hovered around the musketeers, fawning over them as they sipped at their warm drinks. D'Artagnan and Porthos smiled politely, though they seemed somewhat uncomfortable. Athos just held himself stiffly and barely uttered a word.

Marie brushed a hand over Aramis's arm. "I was right."

He arched a brow at her, and she tugged at the laces of his borrowed shirt.

"It looks good on you."

"You are far too kind to bestow such charity on a lowly musketeer," he replied.

She smirked. "Would you like a tour of the house?"

He smiled and set his cup down. "I would be delighted."

He caught Athos's glower on their way out and flashed him an insouciant grin in return.

Marie led him through the corridors, darkened by the absence of light outside. It gave life to writhing shadows in the corners and a feeling of cold emptiness that prickled the hairs on the back of Aramis's neck.

"I haven't seen any servants," he remarked curiously.

"There are none," Marie replied. "It is just me and my sisters."

Aramis frowned at that. "Alone?"

Her lips curved upward and she linked her arm in his. "Not tonight."

They paused in front of a window that looked out into an inky vista. Water streamed down the pane in rushing streams, obscuring visibility even if there had been any light to see by. But despite the ominous weather and ambience of the old house, Aramis was feeling warm, content, almost sleepy even.

Marie turned to face him and leaned in. Aramis automatically dipped his head to meet her mouth, the press of her lips sending a rush of headiness through him. But then Marie abruptly yanked back with a harsh gasp.

Aramis blinked in disorientation, a fog receding from the edges of his mind. "A-apologies," he stammered. "I should not have overstepped."

"No," Marie said quickly. "Not at all." That sultry smile lifted her mouth again. "I've had my eye on you since you first arrived." She raised a hand and trailed it softly down the side of his face.

Aramis started at the sudden memory of Anne, of her touch. He couldn't deny Marie was attractive, and while he yearned for a woman's loving embrace, she could not hold a candle to the one he truly loved.

But the one he loved was forever unavailable to him. Should he deny himself some modicum of pleasure because his heart could not fully be in it?

He squinted, his thoughts growing elusive as that fog rolled back in and he blinked languidly, feeling like he was floating in a dream.

Marie took his hand and tugged him forward. He followed automatically, stilted steps leading him toward a door at the end of the hall.

He pulled up short at the realization of her intent and gave himself a sharp shake. "I'm sorry," he said, still wading through a stupor. "I did not mean to mislead you, but I can't. I should return to my friends."

Her grip moved up to his wrist and tightened. "Let them be." She tugged on him again.

Aramis took another step despite his distinct desire not to. He felt strangely muzzy, almost drunk, but he hadn't consumed any wine. His feet seemed to move of their own accord. And then his heart screamed for Anne and he halted, finally pulling his hand away from Marie. She cocked her head at him in an intensely eerie manner.

Aramis stumbled away and turned to lurch his way back through the halls in search of the others. Marie didn't follow. When he reached the sitting room, Marie's sisters were gone, and Athos and Porthos were slumped in chairs, asleep. Aramis staggered drunkenly over and seized Porthos's shoulder to shake him awake. He didn't react. Heart rate ratcheting up, Aramis reached for Athos and shook him roughly. The man didn't stir or even groan.

Aramis's gaze landed on the empty tea cups and his heart skipped a beat. He whirled in search of d'Artagnan, but the boy wasn't there.

Aramis lumbered back out into the hall and down to the bedroom they'd used to change clothes. There he found d'Artagnan passed out on the bed.

"D'Artagnan." Aramis nearly tripped reaching the bed and caught himself on the edge of the mattress. "D'Artagnan, wake up." He grabbed the lad by the collar and jostled him desperately.

As with the others, he got no reaction.

Giggles trickled into the room and Aramis spun around. Marie and her sisters stalked in, spreading out to circle him. His head swam with a rush of renewed fuzziness.

"What did you put in the tea?" he ground out.

Marie let out a lilting laugh. "It's not the tea, dear. It's your body's natural reaction to our presence." She sauntered closer. "Just let it happen."

Her sisters closed in on him. Something sharp nicked the back of his neck, and his rosary and crucifix suddenly fell to the floor. Then the women were pressing close, running their hands over his arms, back, and chest. A numb feeling coursed through his veins, spread almost by their touch. Aramis wanted to break away but he couldn't move.

He gritted his teeth in frustration. "What did you do to them?" he managed to bite out.

"They're for later," Marie answered. "We have to make our meals last a while." She lifted a finger to trail down his cheek and he flinched. "I like you. Not many are strong enough to resist me. Perhaps I'll make you one of us. But for now…"

She took a step back and the women nudged him forward. Aramis found himself moving not of his own accord. His vision blurred as he was steered down the corridors and back to that chamber—a bedroom lit with candles and draped in black veils. He could do nothing as he was maneuvered to sit on the bed and then pushed back to lie down. Marie crawled onto the mattress and straddled his chest.

His eyelids fluttered. "No—"

"Shh." She pressed a finger to his lips.

A fresh burst of hazy fog infused into his mind. He felt so sleepy…

Just as he was about to nod off, Marie arched her back and opened her mouth wide with a hiss. And then she snapped her head downward and plunged fangs into the side of his neck.

Aramis jolted in mind-numbing shock, and then there was sucking and fire.

He would have screamed had he any breath to do so.

o.0.o

D'Artagnan woke with Constance's name on his lips. He blinked blearily in confusion; he didn't remember falling asleep. He slowly straightened on the bed and looked around the room. He'd been having tea and the de Lussan sisters had been overbearing in their attentions. D'Artagnan frankly wasn't interested in female company unless it was one in particular, so he'd excused himself to come back to the room, but he'd meant to go through their bags and check to see if their rations were intact. A glance at the unmoved bags revealed he apparently hadn't done that.

Rain continued to patter against the window and it was just as dark outside as it had been before so he had no idea how much time might have passed.

He rose from bed slowly, trying to shake off a lingering grogginess. His gaze drifted downward and landed on something on the floor. Sliding off the bed, d'Artagnan crouched down and picked it up. Aramis's rosary and crucifix. How did they end up on the floor? D'Artagnan surveyed the cords; they looked cut.

Shaking his head in its still muddled state, he straightened and turned, only to startle as he found one of the de Lussan sisters standing in the room. He hadn't heard her come in. He was about to apologize to her when she suddenly let out a sharp hiss and jumped back from him, baring her teeth.

D'Artagnan blinked in stunned stupefaction for a split second before instinct had him scrabbling to snatch up a parrying dagger from the belts on the floor.

The woman hissed at him again, her incisors glinting white and unusually elongated, her arms spread to the sides and fingers crooked like claws. D'Artagnan gaped at her utterly feral demeanor.

"You should be asleep," she said.

Her words slithered over him and he felt his eyelids wanting to grow heavy, but he gave himself a sharp shake and gripped the dagger tighter. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, helping to keep the strange weariness at bay.

"What-what are you?" he demanded shakily.

She began to circle around him and he sidestepped to keep her in front.

She ignored his question. "Marie may fancy the charming one, but I think you look delicious," she said and licked her lips salaciously.

"Stay back," d'Artagnan warned. He knew better than to think a woman would be harmless, but he had honestly never felt such fear as he did now.

She bared her fangs and lunged, and d'Artagnan swiped his blade at her while darting away. She spun to face him, a bloodied tear in her gown that she seemed wholly unaffected by.

She ran at him again with such speed that d'Artagnan couldn't react. She tackled him to the floor, both of them crashing into a wooden chair and landing in a pile of splinters. D'Artagnan grunted as pain lanced through several spots. He flailed wildly and the woman jerked back with a hiss. Then she knocked the crosses he still had in his hand away. With another backhand, the parrying dagger went flying too.

D'Artagnan tried to wriggle free as she pressed her weight down on his chest, her mouth stretching wide. He frantically cast about for another weapon and his fingers closed around a piece of wood. As she lunged at his throat, d'Artagnan jerked the broken chair leg between them, the splintered end piercing her chest between the ribs and into her heart. A startled gasp punched past her lips and her eyes blew wide. D'Artagnan stared in horror as she swayed back and slumped to the side.

He scrambled out from under her. Somewhere in the house a horrendous, blood curdling shriek rent the air.

D'Artagnan had no idea what he'd just done but instinct screamed at him to move. He staggered toward where his dagger had landed but paused, then snatched up another broken chair leg instead. He scooped up the crosses as well and hurried down the hall to the sitting room where he'd left Athos and Porthos.

They were sprawled in some chairs, sleeping—or something worse since they hadn't even roused at the sounds of fighting two doors down.

"Athos!" d'Artagnan shouted. He rushed forward and shook the swordsman but got no reaction. Slapping his cheek did nothing either.

The hairs on the back of d'Artagnan's neck suddenly stood on end and he turned sharply to find the other two sisters standing in the doorway, snarling. Eyes that had previously been dazzling now blazed an unearthly, fulvous red.

D'Artagnan jerked the crosses up, dangling them toward the women. They halted their advance. He flicked one last glance back at Athos and Porthos and knew it was up to him to defend them from…whatever the hell these were.

Swallowing hard, d'Artagnan raised the chair leg and charged. The sisters torqued away from him and one of them grabbed him by the back of his collar and flung him around as if he weighed no more than a child. He hit the floor hard and bit back a cry.

Slippered feet crossed the room and then both sisters were bending down on either side of him, eyes fixed on his throat. D'Artagnan clutched the crosses like his life depended on it and thrust them up into one of the women's faces. He heard a faint sizzle underneath her scream and she reeled away, giving him a chance to roll toward the other and stab her with the stake. She gasped and gurgled before falling limp.

D'Artagnan yanked the weapon out and spun just as the third came flying at him in a shrieking rage, half her face burned. He thrust the jagged and bloodstained wood into her heart and let her body drop to the floor, lifeless.

D'Artagnan stumbled backwards, chest heaving with shock and the rush of battle. He'd killed them, all three of them…but it was them or him, he knew that. He didn't have a choice. And they were…

A low moan issued from behind him and d'Artagnan turned to find Athos and Porthos finally stirring.

"Mmph, I fall asleep?" Porthos mumbled.

D'Artagnan rushed over and yanked on his arm urgently. "Get up, we have to move."

"Wh-what?"

He moved to Athos and hauled him from the chair without a by-your-leave. "On your feet, now."

Athos grunted at the manhandling and caught his balance on the back of Porthos's chair. "What…" He blinked at the sisters dead on the floor and went rigid. "What's going on?" He shot a sharp look at d'Artagnan.

D'Artagnan's jaw tightened. "We have to find Aramis."

"D'Artagnan, what _happened_?"

"They're not human," he bit out, cursing the words as they left his mouth because they were insane. But what he'd just been through was insane and Aramis was missing with one of them still somewhere in the house…

A high-pitched keen pierced the air and d'Artagnan flinched away as it scraped against his eardrums. He turned to find Marie had arrived, looking as feral and livid as the others had, a trickle of blood dribbling out the corner of her mouth and down her chin. D'Artagnan felt a chill run down his spine. He gripped the crosses tightly and flicked his gaze to the stake still sticking out of the third sister, then to Marie. Yet the moment he locked eyes with her he found his body suddenly paralyzed as though trapped in a mire. He couldn't move an inch as Marie stalked forward, and the crosses slipped from his now numb fingers.

"I am going to rip you apart," she seethed, coming to a stop before him. She reached a hand up and wrapped her fingers around his throat, long fingernails scratching along his skin.

His heart pounded wildly and d'Artagnan willed himself to _move_, but he couldn't. It was like his body wasn't his own anymore. All he could do was stand there, transfixed, as Marie's grip began to squeeze.

A vase suddenly smashed over her head and shattered into a shower of shards, but Marie barely flinched. She turned with a glower and shoved Athos in the chest with enough force that he went flying across the room to crash against one of the bookcases.

Porthos leaped forward and made a grab to restrain her, but she flung him away just as easily. Then she turned back to d'Artagnan.

His heart clenched with terror for his brothers and a sudden surge of regret that he would never see Constance again. Time and distance had not dimmed his love for her, and if anything, his facing death only fanned the fire of his heart.

His fingers twitched.

D'Artagnan started and tried to move his hand, but it instantly fell still. Constance's face flashed before his eyes as Marie seized him by the throat again. He felt a tingle in his limbs. Unsure whether it meant anything, d'Artagnan pushed thoughts of Constance and his love for her to the forefront of his mind. Feeling coursed back into his muscles. Marie leaned in with fangs bared, and d'Artagnan dropped to the floor, catching her off guard. She snarled as he rolled to grab the stake from her sister's body and turned to thrust it up through her as she descended on him.

Marie threw her head back and screamed. D'Artagnan yanked the stake out and she crumpled, sightless eyes fading to black.

Athos and Porthos stumbled back over, eyes wide with shock.

"Wh-what jus' happened?" Porthos uttered.

"I don't know if I can explain," d'Artagnan answered honestly. "But we have to find Aramis, now."

Both of them jolted as they whipped their gazes around and didn't spot their missing marksman.

"He went off with Marie," Porthos said, tone tinged with horror.

D'Artagnan didn't say anything, his expression grim as he led the way out into the hall. "Aramis!"

"Aramis!"

They searched the halls, shouting his name, though he didn't answer. Eventually they came upon a chamber with its doors wide open and candlelight fluttering from within. D'Artagnan's breath stole from his lungs as his gaze landed on Aramis, laid out on a bed as pale and unmoving as a corpse. He rushed forward and reached out to feel for a pulse, chest hitching at the two bruised and bloodied puncture wounds in the side of Aramis's neck. It took too long to feel the very languid beat under his fingers.

"He's alive," he said. "Barely."

"We need to leave this place," Athos said.

Each of their gazes lifted to the window where rain still drummed down in sheets. It could be hazardous going back out into that.

But no more so than staying here.

Porthos shuffled forward and bent to take Aramis's arm in order to pull him up and over his shoulder.

"You got this?" d'Artagnan checked. Both Porthos and Athos were still moving sluggishly under the effects of whatever had drugged them.

Porthos nodded and grunted as he hefted Aramis over his shoulder.

They made their way back through the house cautiously even though it seemed empty and they hadn't met anyone else on the premises besides the de Lussans. Still, they'd had enough walking terrors this evening.

The other sister's body was still in the bedroom when d'Artagnan and Athos went in to grab their bags, and then they hurried downstairs to retrieve the rest of their items. D'Artagnan and Athos quickly shrugged into their coats but Porthos declined to put Aramis down in order to don his.

Then the four of them ventured out into the foul weather, unwilling to split up for even a moment. D'Artagnan was relieved to find the horses as he'd left them, slightly perturbed by the storm but unmolested. He and Athos set to quickly saddling them. Then they got Aramis on Porthos's horse with him and threw cloaks over them both in a slapdash effort to shield them from the rain.

Finally they all were mounted and they burst out into the storm to ride away as quickly as they could.

o.0.o

The chilling rain helped to banish the last of the fogginess from Athos's mind. He couldn't explain its source or effects, and that left him unbalanced and unnerved. Not even wine could numb him the way he'd felt in that house.

He wasn't entirely sure what to make of what he'd witnessed back there at the end either, though he was familiar with some folklore that was coming to mind now. He just didn't want to allow himself to go there. Creatures of the night weren't real. Demons weren't real.

He glanced back at Porthos, who also seemed more alert the further they got from that place, expression set in granite with concern and determination. Athos couldn't tell in the growing darkness but Aramis appeared unconscious still in Porthos's arms. Athos had seen the wounds on his neck, and it only lent further credence to the theory swirling around in his head that he doggedly refused to give voice to.

He looked at d'Artagnan riding beside him. The boy was pale and looked shaken. The hasty flight and chilling rain wasn't doing him any favors, nor Aramis, but there was no shelter in sight and Athos was afraid to stop, even though they'd left only the dead behind.

Or the undead.

When a village appeared up ahead, Athos felt an irrational surge of fear at stopping. But he shoved it down and mentally chastised himself. They were in dire need of rest and a chance to see to Aramis properly. He turned toward the village so they could find an inn.

"Athos!" d'Artagnan called out.

He pulled back on the reins and twisted in his saddle. D'Artagnan's eyes were wide and he hesitated, but then nodded away from the village to a structure a little further away that looked like a monastery. Athos could understand why he might prefer that for shelter over an inn, and while part of him wanted to chide the boy for his foolishness, the words stuck in his throat. He nodded and they headed that direction instead.

Just as before, Athos found himself on a stranger's doorstep, knocking to plead for admittance. It was several long moments before a monk answered and instantly ushered them to come inside.

There was a lean-to next to the building and they opted to leave the horses there for now, their growing concern for Aramis taking precedence.

The monk's eyes widened in alarm as Porthos carried their unconscious brother inside. "Does he need a physician?"

"No," Athos said, perhaps a bit too quickly. "We will tend him."

The monk nodded deferentially and led them to some rooms. Athos found the sparse furniture of four beds, a basin, two chairs and a table, and a hearth to be reassuring after the opulence of that horror house.

"I'll have some sustenance brought in," the monk said. He paused as Porthos laid Aramis on the floor, the marksman's head lolling to the side to reveal the wounds on his neck. A gasp slipped past the old man's lips and he quickly made the sign of the cross.

Athos straightened sharply. "Have you seen that before?" he demanded.

The monk shifted nervously. "Your friend…"

"What?"

He bowed his way toward the door. "I will pray for his soul." With that, he left swiftly.

"What is that supposed ta mean?" Porthos snapped.

Athos shook his head. "It doesn't matter. Let's get Aramis out of those wet clothes and into a bed."

In their haste to leave the house, they'd all still been wearing the borrowed articles and Athos found himself overcome with the urge to rip them off. He pushed aside his own discomfort for the moment and focused on his injured brother instead.

While d'Artagnan set about starting a fire in the hearth, Athos and Porthos stripped Aramis out of his soaked garments and wrestled him into some mostly dry ones from the saddlebags. The articles were cold though, so they would have to work at getting him warm other ways.

They moved him to the closest bed and tucked the blankets around him snugly. Athos grabbed the ones off the next bed over and draped them over the back of a chair which he set before the fire to warm. Then the rest of them changed out of the clothes they were wearing, throwing the wet garments in a pile in the corner. Athos was of an irrational mind to burn them.

D'Artagnan grabbed Aramis's med kit and took a seat on the edge of the bed to examine the wounds on his neck. A deep crease marred his brow as he prodded the puncture holes. After a few moments, he settled for rubbing some salve into them and wrapping a bandage around Aramis's neck. There was little else to be done.

A knock sounded at the door, but when Athos opened it, there was only a kettle and a tray of bread and cups on the floor, the monk apparently too frightened to come back into the room. Athos found he couldn't really blame the man.

He brought the items inside and the three of them puttered around for a few minutes before finally settling.

Athos clutched his cup of hot tea between his hands and drew in a breath. "D'Artagnan," he began. "What happened?"

D'Artagnan fidgeted where he sat on the bed to the left of Aramis. "You saw."

"I saw bits of the end. I don't remember anything before that, not after we entered that room." It terrified him to have that blank gap, to think something could have such absolute, consuming power over him.

D'Artagnan rolled his shoulder. "Marie and her sisters were…" He trailed off, seeming no more interested in saying it out loud than Athos was in hearing it voiced.

"They weren't human," Porthos spoke up.

"No." He looked worriedly at Aramis and then reached into his pocket, pulling out the marksman's rosary and crucifix. "They took these from him. I think. I found them on the floor when I woke up. They saved my life."

Crosses, wooden stakes, puncture marks…Athos shook his head to dispel the image.

Porthos glanced between him and d'Artagnan and furrowed his brow. "You two know what they were, don' you?"

Athos's fingers tightened around his cup. "There are…stories. Fairytales. Of things that look human but aren't. They are said to be immortal, cannot bear the light of the sun, and they drink blood from their victims."

Porthos's eyes widened and he shot an alarmed look at Aramis, still and silent as death.

"They are just legends."

"Athos." D'Artagnan shot him a pointed look.

"They are supposed to be just legends," he amended. It was no use denying what they'd seen and experienced, no matter how much Athos may wish to.

He knocked back the rest of his tea and set the empty cup down. "Get some rest. We are safe within these walls."

If the legends were true.

o.0.o

Aramis woke slowly, awareness seeping in by degrees. Yet despite returning to consciousness, he could barely muster the strength to even open his eyes, a heavy weakness pervading his entire body. He felt so cold.

"Aramis," someone called. Something warm touched his hand, his shoulder.

With strenuous effort, he managed to peel his eyelids open a fraction. A blurry figure took up most of his vision and he blinked a few times until it cleared into the image of d'Artagnan sitting on the side of the bed he realized he was lying in.

D'Artagnan offered him a small smile, but it was marred with worry. "Hey."

Aramis felt his brows knit together in confusion. Then he registered a dull throb in his neck and a flash of red eyes ignited the memory of pain and he sucked in a harsh gasp.

"Easy," d'Artagnan coaxed, putting a hand on his shoulder. "You're safe. Just breathe."

Aramis cast his gaze around at unadorned stone walls. "Wh-where?" he croaked.

"A monastery."

Aramis felt a surge of inexplicable relief at that, but it was quickly doused with alarm. "Athos, Porthos!"

"They're fine," d'Artagnan assured. "We're all fine."

Aramis automatically searched them out and relaxed when he spotted them a short distance away, standing a pace apart and facing a group of monks who were gathered at the door. Aramis frowned as he became aware of the tense atmosphere and the stern almost defensive postures of his friends. "What's wrong?"

"Some folks are being stupidly superstitious," Porthos growled.

"As you can see," Athos stated more calmly, "our companion is awake, recovering, and on hallowed ground without spontaneously erupting into flames."

Aramis quirked a confused brow at d'Artagnan, whose mouth was pressed into a thin line.

"That is not enough," one of the monks said. "If he drank of the demon's blood, then he may still become one of them."

Aramis stiffened, a thrill of horror zinging through him as snatches of memory flashed through his mind.

D'Artagnan leaned close and whispered, "Did you drink any of Marie's blood?"

"I-I don't remember," he whispered back as terror seized his heart and squeezed. He didn't remember much of anything except a haze and then excruciating pain. He lifted a hand to his neck and brushed against the soft feel of bandages.

"The demon must be purified in holy water," the monk pressed.

"You mean drowned," Porthos snapped angrily.

"Enough," d'Artagnan interrupted sharply. He held up Aramis's rosary and crucifix for the monks to see and then made a point of pressing them into Aramis's hand.

Aramis didn't know what that was supposed to accomplish, but the feel of the familiar items sent a wave of calm into his troubled heart and he raised them to his lips, silently lifting up a prayer to God to spare his soul.

"See?" d'Artagnan said. "He's not damned."

The monks whispered among themselves.

D'Artagnan stood. "The demons couldn't bear to touch the cross. I know; I burned one of them with it. And I'm the one who slew the harem. So maybe you lot should leave us in peace to recover from fighting off an evil you apparently knew about but did nothing against."

More murmurs were exchanged but the monks quietly left.

D'Artagnan huffed.

Athos arched a brow at him. "That was very pointed."

"They were getting on my nerves."

"No, I'm impressed."

D'Artagnan shrugged uncomfortably and sat next to Aramis again. "How are you feeling?"

Aramis swallowed thickly. "I'm not sure." He ran his thumb over the gold cross, trying to take comfort in d'Artagnan's earlier declaration.

"You're going to be fine," the boy said as though reading his thoughts. "You've been out for over a day from what we assume is blood loss, and we were worried about that for a bit, but now that you're awake, you can take some wine and broth."

Porthos finally abandoned his guarded stance and went to get some cups.

Aramis closed his eyes and tried to get control of himself. "You killed them?" he asked hoarsely, picking up on that bit of d'Artagnan's impassioned words.

"Yes," he replied softly. He folded his hand over Aramis's with the crosses. "I woke up and found these. They're the only reason I'm sitting here now."

Aramis shuddered as he remembered the de Lussan sisters cutting them from around his neck.

"The only reason any of us are," Athos added, the mattress dipping as he took a seat on the other side.

Porthos brought over two cups, one with wine and the other with broth, and Athos helped lift Aramis's head so he could drink some of each. Just being awake for this short amount of time though had left him feeling worn and exhausted.

"Rest," Athos told him. "The storm is over and the sun is waiting."

Aramis blinked languidly as he realized the room was in fact filled with streaming sunbeams, some of which even reached as far as his bed. He closed his eyes and let their warmth seep into his skin and lull him into a restful sleep surrounded by the watchful eyes of his brothers.


End file.
